


Sealed Up Secret Wish

by tocasia



Series: Our Shining Past [44]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: AU, Addiction, Angst, Betrayal, Dark, Death, Despair, Gen, Guilt, Manipulate materia, Memories, Mind Games, Paranoia, Pretty Messed Up, Sephiroth and Zack friendship, Stream of Consciousness, Torture, dreams or maybe not, interior monologues, possibly disturbing, the war in Wutai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-15 02:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14149965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocasia/pseuds/tocasia
Summary: It was the darkest of his secrets.  The kind of power that heroes in stories were punished for wanting, but that he'd delighted in, every time he'd done it in Wutai.Now it created an unwinnable scenario for Sephiroth, something he thought he'd never encounter.  Because the solution he'd come up with, he was unwilling to implement.  Sephiroth and Manipulate.  Dark.(53. fantasy, keeping a secret) for Seph&Zack Friendship 100 Themes





	Sealed Up Secret Wish

Sephiroth hung up the phone and made a valiant effort to remind himself that office boredom had its merits. At least he and Zack weren't getting shot at every day unless they chose that for their training.

He told himself he wasn't exactly discontent, but too often his thoughts settled on what he missed, what he _wanted_.

Zack was worried about him and would probably ask soon what was wrong, might even brave a mention of Wutai in the name of kind concern. Sephiroth would lie. Maybe it was a sign of true friendship that lying to Zack was uncomfortable. It felt like betrayal.

* * *

He wanted... no, no violence in this world could satisfy him. He knew that already.

The fire was never hot enough either, to melt the things that melted in his dreams. To absolutely sterilize the soil and tear the air apart.

Was it a dream, or a memory?

A consuming want, warm and radiant. A fearful mantra, a nearly irresistible compulsion.

There was something intriguing about scale....

He wanted... a violent challenge, wanted it to last a while, wanted to feel properly victorious at the end instead of foolish for trying to delight in things beneath him. Wanted to feel power, righteousness while still believing in nothing. Glory, pure and searing. To soar above ecstasy. Some sort of ultimate... what?

The anticipation of imagining it correctly was _almost_ enough.

It was not simple domination he was interested in. He had not found what he sought when he asked nicely with Manipulate, with minds entwined, his in their memories, exploring, demanding, taking, experiencing.... He had felt death, pleasure, agony, despair, that was not his own. For them, no euphoria from drugs, or sex, or mania ever came _close_ to his fantasy. The sample size was approaching statistical validity. What he remembered did not exist in any physical realm, was beyond humanity's ability to know.

That had not stopped him from trying, of course.

He killed his victims, and when they died under his control, veiled in the turquoise sheen, it was.... everywhere mentally invigorating, refreshing, like holding his hand over a hot cup of tea and feeling warm steam surround. Deeper. The kind of relaxed satisfaction where he'd let his eyes roll back half-lidded and raise them again only slowly, to drag it out. It took all his willpower to not be swept away by how _good_ it felt. No amount of guilt at how it shouldn't be good, that it was perhaps wrong, could destroy its allure. Nothing could compare. And it was _his_. His alone, by right, forever. All of it.

Again and again, they surrendered their lives for his pleasure. The intensity varied. It became an addiction.

He did not ask Mother why it was _this_ that brought him closest to his memory of bliss.

...the color of that magic  
it was the color of his eyes  
and the color of the Lifestream.

He did not dwell on the connection. 

Sephiroth tracked down every single copy of Manipulate before the war ended. He had them _all_ in his possession. No one alive besides himself knew of that materia's existence or what he'd done with it.

Nor could they ever be allowed to know.

Especially not Zack.

Sephiroth would never tell. He was safe. In the past he'd revealed just enough of his cruelty so that Zack believed he knew its full extent and was extremely unlikely to search for more evidence. Somehow, he even seemed to accept it.

But....

There was a chance that if Zack heard a suitably convincing rumor, he'd investigate. It couldn't happen, but... it was an easy scenario to imagine....

* * *

Zack would stroll nonchalantly through the slums, asking wrong questions. A well-meaning underworld contact might pull him aside and hiss, "You'll get us both killed saying that! Such a thing _does not exist_. We don't know what you're talking about, go back and tell him that. Tell him we said nothing. Please."

Zack would know who 'him' was. Sephiroth inspired his own brand of fear that not even the most ruthless dons could match. "He didn't send me here."

The man's calculating look would divulge more than he meant to. Zack had lots of practice reading expressions and would catch the hope there. "Okay, come with me. I know a guy."

Zack would be led to a room that wasn't smoky. It'd still be dark and seedy like you expect these back rooms to be whenever you go gather dangerous information.

There'd be others at the table with the informant. Zack would describe them as 'probably pretty tough guys'.

"Tell this SOLDIER your story."

There'd be no argument. How could there be?

"I got out. Wutai had a materia that could make you do anything. No, really. I'm serious. They didn't have to torture you, didn't have to leave a bruise or a break or a mark on your skin. All they had to do was ask and you'd tell them things. You'd watch your questioner's face and see it in their eyes and little smiles, how much they enjoyed their superiority and your helplessness. But they couldn't _break_ you with that magic. It was temporary. You didn't get all twisted up in the head. You just told the truth and were free to hate your captor. It was positively _decent_ compared with what the General can do."

"How do you know?" Zack might say. He wouldn't want to believe it.

"Wutai brought me back. So I remember what he did."

"How'd he kill you?" Zack would know it couldn't have been the sword.

"Fire. He watched me burn to death from inside my head and forbade me from making a sound."

"I was guilty. I won't tell you what I did. That's over. But with him I had no choice but to tell. He asked politely. I thought it wouldn't be so bad, would be like what Wutai's agents had done. I wasn't afraid anymore. I'd heard the stories of his justice, figured I was a dead man kneeling. I told him the information he wanted. I thought he would end it there, cleanly.

He read that thought. No, he really did. I felt it, felt him watching in my mind. Wutai couldn't do that, you had to actually answer aloud. He saw my trust, my expectation of quick mercy at his hands, my hope and resignation. He was _interested_ , then. It didn't show on his face, of course, it never did, you know that. But he was paying too much attention to me, inside. At first it was like... you know the gradually sharpening pain when you hold your eyes open for a long time and they start to dry out? Like that. In my head.

He asked for more detail. You know, the usual. Locations and numbers of enemy forces, supplies, bases, what my orders had been. I told him, of course. His questions moved on to everyday things. Took me completely by surprise. No way could I have expected the Great General to care who I was. He wanted to see a different worldview. What were my wishes, opinions? What was it like, the terror of capture? And what else? Little by little, he demanded access to all I'd ever felt. All those really important memories that make someone who they are. The ones you don't tell anybody, ever.

I fought against him, tried to resist. For a while I was winning, but not really. I didn't give up until he made me. It was easy for him. He let me feel how _interesting_ my struggling was. His insatiable curiosity about suffering became mine, too. We wondered if he'd see anything new this time. Are you afraid yet? Show me how much.

He tangled his thoughts up in mine. A nightmare sort of empathy. Do you understand now what I can do? To me you are nothing. You will become a witness to your emptiness.

I ran out of things to tell him. He'd seen my whole life, everything important to me, and judged it worthless, so it was. He held me there in helplessness a long time. I was to feel not even pain without his permission, which he had no reason to give, while he explained. He was taking, had taken, _everything_ from me; would strip away any meaning of the self, save for the memory I'd had one, once. Could have had one. It was my fault I didn't, my punishment. Too late. There was and never would be a future.

How does it feel?

That's when he was watching most intensely. Fascinated. Drinking in despair, utter emotional defeat, delighting in it, glorying in it, obscene.

My hatred thrilled him. He laughed, and the hatred was for myself.

I begged then. What could I do for him so that he'd give it back? Anything. Please!

They weren't my own thoughts. I'd never beg like that. He laughed again. Don't you realize they've been taken, too?

Then, what do I have left to offer? he said for me.

His was an angel's voice.

Nothing. You have done all you could. But I forgive your failure. Now, come to my promised reward.

Then he cast the spell, shared his joy in casting it, how wonderful it was, how beautiful he thought the flames were, and how I agreed and would be still, grateful to taste in his power. Without fear I would accept his unrelenting peace and silence, because screams were annoying, weren't they? while he smiled and waited and watched for the end, when he would collect his due."

....

A long pause would indicate that perhaps the story was over.

"So is this the part where you laugh at our gullible faces and say it isn't true?" one of the men at the table might ask.

"No."

The guy who'd brought Zack would say, "You heard enough?"

Zack wouldn't be able to answer, couldn't speak to the enormity of it. The pleasure Sephiroth took in the complete destruction of another's self was the antithesis of everything Zack was. Friendship with _that_ was unthinkable. Zack would leave him, forever....

* * *

...and that was not acceptable. In the wake of such a revelation would come an accusation, a confrontation. Zack would plead for his denial. It would be pointless. Zack was not Zack who forgave him for this.

"How many people, Sephiroth? How many did you do this to?"

"I don't think I should tell you that."

Glowering with hurt, Zack would say, "Don't lie to me anymore Seph, you've already...."

He'd whisper the answer. "All of them."

" _All_ the prisoners? _This_ is what you did in Wutai? Your personal _justice?_ Was every single one _really_ justified? Were they _all_ traitors, Sephiroth?"

"They were."

That wouldn't help.

Zack would try to kill him. Sephiroth would not let it happen.

Or Zack would, in blind anger, betray his secret to the world, shattering his noble image and allowing the dangerous materia to fall into Shinra's hands.

Or worse.... No! He did not want Zack to _like_ it. Zack needed to be a good person.

The solution to those outcomes was obvious. He'd use Manipulate to make Zack forget.

He'd be gentle.

Ha! Even if he could promise that, it wouldn't be the same afterwards. His act would erase all pretense of equality between them. He would have a subordinate, not a friend; what he loved would be lost, as surely as if he had not compounded the lie.

Somehow, Zack's honest friendship, given willingly in spite of what he did know, had become what Sephiroth treasured most. On some days, it was the only good.

He did not want to hurt Zack.

Thus, by caring to shield another from the truth and its consequences, he'd burdened himself with constant dread. Dread of discovery, dread of his own certain retaliation. He feared Mother's reproach, too, but to her it was perfectly natural for him to want to protect his family.

* * *

Sephiroth blinked down at his desk. He'd gotten hardly any paperwork done. This self-pitying nonsense could not continue. He scowled. The official Shinra wall calendar did not abandon its post in terror this time, either. He didn't need any more delays.

He made a decision, and with it a concession he thought he'd never consider. It would be alright; he wasn't cutting off his options entirely. His plan wouldn't correct the lie of omission that had probably doomed their friendship from the start, but....

Normally, he came and went as he pleased while he worked; in the adjacent room, Zack would not worry. Sephiroth locked his office and walked to his apartment as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

He could not undo his past, and indeed, had no true wish to. However, he was fully in command of his future.

* * *

Even in the face of this temptation, his resolve would not be broken.

He removed the box from its secret compartment in his room and set it, unopened, on the bed. An unusual artifact, it was the one trophy he'd taken from Wutai that wasn't itself materia. Dark wood, scrolled with mother-of-pearl inlay. The precious resting place of all the copies of Manipulate he'd collected in the war. After he finished what he was about to do, he knew he'd abhor the box for its association. Tragic. Even if it were hundreds of years old, he must destroy it as well. He regretted that necessity.

Sephiroth laughed. He was throwing away power for sentiment. He was a fool.

Friends were allowed to keep secrets from each other, weren't they?

Did Zack's opinion of him really matter so much?

There were no other copies. If he did this....

Heh.

* * *

Materia was difficult to break.

It could be chipped at, shaved down, and though it required the skill of a master, it could be carved, sculpted into ornaments, and still retain its magic.

It was sometimes possible to will it to fail during use. In Wutai, that's what the enemy had done to prevent its capture; the explosions were usually fatal. He would not do that.

Slicing materia in half with Masamune tended to unleash stronger effects than the casting. It would be.... He shuddered. Absolutely not.

If it worked, which he doubted, using the replica sword would be adding to the lie. That didn't make sense, but none of this did.

No... he would annihilate one secret with another. Something of his own power....

* * *

Standing at a distance, he prepared for the cast, and with a gesture, an afterthought really, opened the box from afar. He didn't have to count. There were ninety-eight of the yellow orbs inside. They should have sparkled, tantalizingly dramatic, but did not.

He drew an arc with a wide sweep of his arm and reality was otherwise. No warning, no visible gathering of energy heralded the shift.

Here, in the shadow place, forsaken life's color bleached away by eons, there was no possibility of a miss. He and his target were all that existed, pure black silhouettes on white forever. His had wings; a fleeting distraction he barely acknowledged. He'd always looked different here.

Unable to escape the heart of the spell, where spectrums inverted faster than the unenhanced could see, wisps of yellow taunted him with turquoise echoes for the last time.

Shadows guided inward by his will converged, rending essence asunder, aggregates of soundless dusk descending, to flare out, multiplied, and disperse gracefully, the swarm of explosions heard only at the dissolution of eternity.

There was no temperature in the shadow place. At the return, he felt the rush of cold.

Motes of light and dark danced in front of his eyes a moment more. He checked the bedspread for glittering dust; there was none. Nothing of Manipulate remained except the empty spot in the drawer he hadn't closed, where the box had been. Sephiroth kicked it shut so that the contents jostled around and messily filled in that space.

It was done. He'd rejected the path that would bring him grief, and though the memories would haunt him, there would be no new ones of that type to hide from Zack. He would still never speak of this. It may yet be the wrong decision.

Strangely, he didn't feel he'd lost anything, and considered it a good sign.


End file.
